The Boy and I

So it’s all official – it’s ADHD right?

I have been diagnosing my eldest since he was out of hospital after winning his fight with Meningitis. Mentally, vocally, in private and on the public stage; I have dissected his being and tried to piece together a way to help him; have tried to define him and pinpoint his issues; have tried to coexist alongside him and use appropriate discipline, have tried to reach out to him, to nurture him and make his life comfortable, without giving into his every desire. I have spent years trying to treat him similarly to his siblings, all the while knowing that he is not like them in so many ways.

His disposition and “condition” have lead me along many dark paths, wondering whether fault lay with me, my parenting skills or perhaps even my decision to have subsequent children. I have questioned, researched, lived and experienced more ups and downs than I ever thought possible. I have spent nights awake staring at a luminous screen, trying to find an answer, a reason and a way to help. A way to make him happy; to help him take responsibility for his own happiness; a way to see that gorgeous smile more often.

A usual day with Poetboy will comprise many ups and downs. Confrontation is a fact of life. His resistance will frequently be to an idea or request that maybe yesterday he did with no complaint, there is no forewarning that he is suddenly going to decide not to brush his teeth, or wander into his bedroom to get changed into school uniform only to walk out half an hour later in his pyjamas with a book in his had in which he is absorbed, or a picture that he has drawn me, or a game that he has devised. His mind wanders like no one else I have ever known.

Until he was nearly three years into school (age 6) , I put every garment on his body each morning myself. There was no point asking him to dress himself or even asking if he would help me as I dressed him. I would have to painstakingly clothe him, piece by piece, “Poetboy, would you stretch your toes out so that Mummy can put on you socks, please?”

“NO.” “NO.NO.NOOO!” my answer, as limbs flailed and tensions grew.

Each morning, I would dress him, Elmo and then Looney, who was just baby at that time. I would spoon feed them their breakfast on the days when Poetboy refused to feed himself and of course, with both dressing, eating and other perfunctory tasks, Elmo would copy-cat Poertboy’s resistance each time, making my mornings quite the ordeal. I would brush their teeth myself, wash their bodies myself in the shower or bath, arrange their hair, make their lunches and walk them to school. Some mornings Poetboy would strip his clothes back off after I had dressed him, I would re-dress him and then half walk half drag him kicking and screaming to school. On our arrival, he would run off to play with his friends as if he were just like them – “normal” and I would stand self consciously with the other parents who had had time to wash their own hair or apply deodorant that morning, until I saw him sit down in his class. Many were the days that I would be called back for briefing on his anti social behaviour, or because he was curled under a desk and refusing to come out. He ran away from school, on one occasion, making it all the way home. He was five. I developed a certain resistance and resilience to the temper tantrums and we got on with it. Slowly. Poet boy was learning that life was more fun and that he was allowed treats when he was compliant. I beat myself up that I was bribing my son to behave “normally” with extra cartoon time on Television, or ten minutes extra story time at night, when other children just did these things with a little encouragement from Mum.

I stripped his bedroom of toys once as punishment as he punched me repeatedly in frustration and blind rage. “But I’ll be GOOOD now!” he wailed. “No, Poetboy, you were given your chances. Mummy will return your toys when you are calm and I have seen some improvements.” It was the first time that I realised that one day he would be bigger than me and he may still take out his frustrations on me. I learned that I must not allow the other boys to treat me the same way and I would physically remove myself from Poetboy when he was in a rage. I would be distraught that he might hurt himself. He would feel such remorse after his rages that he would pull his own hair out.

I grew used to people surmising that he was “naughty”. I would defend him but have no excuse to offer. “He is not quite the same as other boys” I would say. It was feeble, but it was all I had. Each time I had tried to get some form of assistance, I was told that he was fine and that he would grow out of it. Of course, the fact that I had left his father wouldn’t have helped, and so really I had made my bed and I should shut up and lay in it (this was not even an implication – more a statement that was churned out time and time again).

Buy Poetboy and I had an understanding. Still do. Just for occasional moments in a month. A few minutes of clarity where he holds me and says with all sincerity, “I love you so much mummy”. When the other stuff has gone away and there is no difficulty in his words. When he is not declaring his love to gain something more. When the simplicity of his arms around my ribcage and his breath against my shoulder are enough. When the scream has gone from his tone and he is my beautiful young man. Then the feeling of parental pride and love is magnified, and makes me so happy I can instantly forget the problems that we face so frequently.

So label it ADHD if they must, if they please. Meanwhile I shall continue to teach him and love him and endure what I must to give him some sense of self and “normality”.

He is who he is. As am I.

~ by Femme on November 27, 2007.